


you get what you need

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Bedsharing, Business Trip, F/M, Sorry Not Sorry, fanfic tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:11:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3358781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The porter escorted them to the seventh floor and motioned toward a door on the right, number 721, before producing a key to let them inside.</p><p>“Now,” he said, setting both suitcases by the coat rack, to the left of the open door. “As you can see, you have a living room, kitchenette, and a small balcony overlooking our pool and lounge area, here.” He then pointed down a little hallway to their right. “The bedroom and restroom are just through there. I think you’ll find everything very comfortable—”</p><p>“Excuse me.” Behind the porter, Joan cleared her throat. “One bedroom?” </p><p>“Well, yes, ma’am,” the young man said slowly, staring back at her in clear confusion. “I—it’s a king size bed, so you’ll have plenty of space, should you need it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	you get what you need

The hotel lobby was tastefully decorated, if a little plain on first look, and the pale, pockmarked desk clerk had a high-pitched voice that cracked nearly every time he spoke, as if he were cycling back and forth between pubescent stages at will.

“Oh!” the boy said, as he perused the thick reservations book balanced on the desk in front of him. His voice cracked again on the following word. “Well, Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Harris, I’m—glad to say you’ve been upgraded to one of our business suites. We reserve those for our best customers, you know.”

Lane pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, and let out a sigh, unable to muster up much enthusiasm for these effusive words. “Wonderful. Thank you.”

Perhaps they’d have a sitting area, in addition to the bedrooms. He glanced left at Joan to gauge her reaction. She stared back at him, still a little too pale, and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. 

They’d flown through a thunderstorm just before landing in Jacksonville, and experienced half an hour of the worst turbulence he’d felt on an airplane in years. Lane had been more or less all right, afterward, but poor Joan had spent the remaining few minutes of the flight sitting with her eyes squeezed closed, breathing deeply through her nose. She’d never admit it aloud, but after all that and the long taxi ride to the hotel, he suspected she was still very green. Least their presentation to the sunscreen people wasn’t until tomorrow.

A porter escorted them to the seventh floor and motioned toward a door on the right, number 721, before producing a key to let them inside.

“Now,” he said, setting both suitcases by the coat rack, to the left of the open door. “As you can see, you have a living room, kitchenette, and a small balcony overlooking our pool and lounge area, here.” He then pointed down a little hallway to their right. “The bedroom and restroom are just through there. I think you’ll find everything very comfortable—”

“Excuse me.” Behind the porter, Joan cleared her throat. “One bedroom?” 

“Well, yes, ma’am,” the young man said slowly, staring back at her in clear confusion. “I—it’s a king size bed, so you’ll have plenty of space, should you need it.”

Oh, my lord. Lane felt himself go pale. The porter kept speaking.

“I—gosh, I hope that’s all right. Jimmy mentioned your secretary called this morning to make sure everything in your unit was—ready—”

“Where’s your telephone?” Joan asked, her voice turning sharper.

 

**

 

“So he said that because of the holiday weekend, with all those families traveling before the school year, that you and Mr. Pryce might be more comfortable in a business suite, and so _I_ said, if you think you can stick them somewhere more expensive, you’ve got another thing coming, mister! And then he told me he could upgrade you for free, since you’d originally had adjoining rooms, and I thought, well, of course you’d want _more_ bedrooms—”

“Meredith,” Joan growled, pausing to swallow the bile in her throat. She closed her eyes against the persistent nausea. No more sudden movements. “Give Dawn the phone.”

“Okay,” Dawn said the second she picked up, bypassing hellos entirely. Thank god. “How can I help?”

Joan let out a breath through her nose, weighing her options. Labor Day weekend in a beachfront city. It could be an hour or more before they found anything suitable, if there were rooms left in places other than roach motels. On top of all that, she felt queasier with every passing second.

Lane appeared in the bedroom doorway, scratching a hand over the back of his head, and wearing a resigned expression. “Well, I’ve told the lad that we’re very cross, but I had a thought as to—“ his brow furrowed in sudden concern. “Are you all right?”

She slung the receiver back onto the bed without speaking, and moved quickly into the restroom, slamming the door behind her and rushing towards the toilet.

 

**

 

After several minutes spent slumped against the toilet lid, praying for death, Joan finally felt well enough to venture back out into the open. She rinsed out her mouth, splashed cold water on her face, and pushed open the door.

The bedroom was empty, although her suitcase and satchel were sitting in the hallway, just beside the doorframe. From the other room, she could hear the television playing—something funny, judging by the tinny laugh track. She walked into the living room and saw Lane sitting in the middle of the beige sofa. His suit jacket was carefully draped across the right armrest, and he’d taken off his shoes, which were placed by the coat rack.

“What are you watching?” she asked, quickly swiping at her eyes, in case her makeup had been mussed between here and the restroom.

Lane looked surprised to see her up and around. “Oh—nothing important, really.” He paused. “Feeling any better?”

“A little.” She took a seat next to him, trying to smile. “Did you talk to Dawn?”

“I thought we should—discuss that, first.” He looked apologetic. “I spoke with the clerk about changing rooms, and he said there wouldn’t be a vacancy with double beds until tomorrow afternoon, at least. And—of course we _can_ change hotels, but we may want to get a move on, if that’s the case. I—well, assumed you wouldn’t want to drag the girls into it. I’ll make all the arrangements, if need be.”

“Lane.”

He looked at her as if he didn’t understand what she meant, and so she elaborated. 

“I don’t want to move hotels. I’m exhausted.”

“Oh.” He seemed surprised, but tried to play it off. “Erm, very well. We’ll just—make the best of it, for this evening. I’ll take the sofa, a-and of course you’ll have the—room. And then tomorrow, we’ll have everything straightened out.”

“Are you sure?” She knew she looked skeptical. “Won’t sleeping on the sofa hurt your back?”

She almost said _it’s a king size bed; there’s room,_ but before she could voice this weird little thought, it had zipped away almost as soon as it had arrived.

Lane gave her a stern glance over the top of his glasses, like the mere suggestion was offensive. She didn’t know why he was trying to deny it. He’d thrown out his back a year ago moving some heavy boxes at home, and when he’d finally mentioned this to her—two weeks later—and complained that it still ached, she’d practically had to drag him to the doctor. He was so stubborn about these things.

“Never you mind,” was all he said.

“All right.” Joan let out another sigh. “If you’re sure.”

 

** 

 

She took a catnap, and then spent an hour going over the files before deciding to put work away for the evening. While she was working, Lane unpacked, and they both began to get settled. It was still light outside, but with the long plane ride, she was anticipating an early night.

Joan hung a suit and a dress next to Lane’s two suits in the small closet, and put her suitcase away with a satisfied noise. Her toiletries were neatly arranged on one side of the large dresser, which faced the bed. She’d already taken out her glasses and put them on the left bedside table, along with a plastic bag of items Lane had clearly bought from the shop in the lobby. He’d been prepared for the worst. There was a travel-sized bottle of Pepto-Bismol, antacids, aspirin, mouthwash, and a bag of hard peppermints. She kept eating those. They settled her stomach.

She could hear Lane’s voice from the other room. “Joan—food’s just arrived." 

At least the booking mishap had come with one perk: free room service.

“Okay,” she called back. When she walked into the living room, she found Lane arranging their plates around the small dining table next to the window. There was a small bottle of red wine sitting beside the centerpiece.

“Complimentary—or so they said.” He gave a little shrug. “We needn’t drink any, if you’re still feeling ill.”

Joan eyed the bottle with an interested expression. Her stomach had stopped hurting a long time ago. “I could have a small glass.”

 

**

 

“Okay,” Joan said, watching as Lane corked the half-empty bottle of wine and set it aside. “Weirdest date.”

“Oh, lord,” he sighed, but the corners of his mouth kept twitching up in a smile, so she wasn’t worried.

“I’ll tell you about mine,” she said in a kind of singsong voice. “It involves a trip to Coney Island, an overdue copy of Les Miserablès, and a malfunctioning Ferris wheel." 

Lane looked stunned. “How on earth does that qualify as a date?”

Five minutes later, he was up to speed.

“So I’m sitting in the unmoving car, alone, watching this cute boy climb his way up the rigging. Eventually, we started talking. The only thing we could discuss that wasn’t superficial was the book I’d been reading." 

Lane was still giggling. “Sorry. You managed to procure a date with a handsome stranger while stuck at the top of a _broken_ Ferris wheel?”

She quirked her lips at him, and patted her hair with one hand. “Well. I was just out of high school. We talked for an hour before he was able to get me down.”

“Bravo.” He put his napkin onto his empty plate with a bemused look. “I—I certainly can’t compete with that.”

“Come on. Let’s hear yours.” Joan couldn’t help but tease him a little.

“Oh,” he demurred, pulling his pocketwatch from his vest pocket, his eyes widening at the time. “Well. I shall have to tell you in the morning. Getting a bit late.” 

She didn’t know why she felt disappointed, but stood up to help him clear the table. “You’re probably right.”

 

**

  

Joan woke from a light sleep with a start, and sighed as she rearranged the thin covers over her chest. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Not even midnight. In the other room, she could hear Lane turn onto his other side with a slight cough, the springs of the thin sofa bed creaking under his weight as he moved.

He’d been restless ever since they turned out the light, and normally she wouldn’t have noticed, but she sometimes found it hard to relax in a strange bed. Tonight was no exception; even after the exhausting events of the day, she had gotten about an hour of decent sleep before it became very fitful and frustrating. 

From the living room, she heard a huff of breath, followed by an inaudible mumble.

“Can’t sleep?” she called quietly, hoping he might answer. 

There was a loud sigh, followed by Lane’s voice.

“Sorry. I didn’t wake you?”

“No. I was up.” She paused for a moment, trying to decide whether she should ask her next question. “Is the sofa that bad?”

Lane took several seconds to answer, and Joan mentally winced at the admission. Oh, god. He must be miserable.

“It’s—fine.”

Joan heard the springs of the sofa bed creak again, as if he was getting up, and suddenly there were footsteps padding down the soft-carpeted hallway. She glanced left to see Lane walking into the room in his pajamas, his glasses off, squinting a little as he felt blindly along the left wall with one hand.

“Sorry—thought I’d have a quick visit, since we’re both awake.”

They had agreed to keep the bedroom door open, since they were sharing a single bathroom, and it would keep him from disturbing her during the night. 

Lane’s hand found the light switch just past the bathroom doorway, and as the bulb clicked on, suddenly half the room was illuminated. Joan had to shield her eyes against the brightness before he closed the door.

She spent the next couple of minutes debating the idea she’d wanted to broach before. _We can share the bed, if you’re uncomfortable._ For god’s sake, they’re friends, they’re both adults, and it would only be for one night. She didn’t want to risk him hurting his back on the eve of a big presentation—not that it was an essential account, she knew, or else Pete wouldn’t have let her take it. But if she could secure even the smallest accounts on her own, or with Lane, then with luck they could get shots at the bigger ones. At the very least, she wouldn’t be the agency laughingstock.

It’s just practical, she told herself. That’s it. 

The taps to the sink shut off, and Joan heard, rather than saw, the light flip off in the restroom. Before she could speak, Lane opened the door, and began blindly feeling his way back toward the hall.

“Lane, wait,” she said first, sitting up a little.

He stopped in his tracks. Even with the small amount of light from the city trickling in from the bedroom window, she could barely see his face.

She ran the side of her thumb along the seam of the comforter as she spoke. “Don’t sleep on the couch. Just—stay in here.”

There was a very long pause. 

“You don’t have to,” she offered immediately, which should probably have been said from the beginning. “I just think we should go into this presentation at our best. And you shouldn’t hurt your back on my account. Those sofa beds are awful.”

He was still poised a few feet from the doorway, silent.

She tried to make a joke. “Not dead on your feet, are you?”

“No, erm. Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I—you really don’t mind—sharing?”

Joan was already scooting toward the far side of the bed, motioning that he could climb in, before settling back under the covers. This part of the mattress was cool and soft, and smelled like fresh laundry soap. “Of course not.” 

“Right,” Lane said, and after a hesitation, he walked forward, pushed the covers aside, and got into bed with what seemed like a very determined attitude. The mattress dipped under his weight. He took a couple of minutes to get settled – adjusted one pillow behind his head, shifted position on his back, re-arranged the blankets – and then let out a small, quiet breath, steepling his hands across his stomach.

Maybe he was just anxious. As a joke, Joan pulled one of the pillows out from behind her head and arranged it between them lengthwise, unable to smother a breathy laugh as she did this.

“In case you’re worried,” she said with a smile, propping herself up on her left elbow in order to see him better.

He snorted out a noise that sounded amused. “Very funny." 

She turned over onto her stomach, as if she were going to go to sleep, but couldn’t resist reaching over the middle pillow and stretching out her hand until her fingertips just brushed the side of his upper arm.

“See? This is all I can reach.”

He was laughing a little now, although she still couldn’t gauge his expression in the dark.

“Tell me your weird date story,” she said, shifting so her head and neck were better positioned on the pillow. Her hand was still touching Lane’s arm. She should probably remove it, but she was actually starting to get comfortable. And the sleeve of his pajamas was soft under her fingers.

“Oh.” He turned towards her, clearing his throat. “Well, it’s not terribly exciting, but it was just, erm, after the war. I’d picked up clerking with a company in the City…”

  

**

  

Joan woke up before the alarm—so early it was still dark outside—and for a minute she couldn’t remember where she was, until it all came rushing back: the plane ride, the bad sofa, dinner. Lane.

Lane, whose arm she was apparently using as a makeshift pillow. She swallowed, and reached up to swipe discreetly at the left side of her face, which felt suspiciously damp. Had she drooled on him? Ugh. 

She shifted onto her side so she could see him better. He was asleep on his back, with his head lolling to the left, away from her. His breathing was slow and regular, mouth slightly open, and although there was a little space between them, his right arm was still flung out between her neck and the pillow she was using; her bent leg was flush against his side, and for a moment she just wanted to close her eyes and put her head down again, so she did.

He smelled like salt and faint cologne, and the space between them was warm from his body and the blankets, which were still tangled around their waists. What surprised her was how much she wanted to reach for him. She wanted to press a hand to Lane’s face, or his chest, or his stomach, just to see how he’d react. What would he do if she touched him, Joan wondered; she wanted to see his reaction. 

She _wanted_.

And suddenly the alarm was ringing, along with the telephone, and she sat upright out of habit while he jerked away from her with a gasp, batted at the clock, and groped for the telephone with one hand.

“’Lo?” His voice was scratchy. “Right. Erm. Thank you.”

She forgot she set a wake-up call.

Lane’s hand fumbled around on the nightstand. For a second she thought it was because he was trying to hang up the phone, but when he got the receiver in place and then grabbed her glasses, she realized what he was trying to do.

He squinted and made a surprised noise when he got the frames up to his nose.

“Don’t get up,” she told him, extricating herself from the bed as efficiently as possible. “I think you left yours in the other room.”

She walked into the living room in her pajamas, and had to put a knee on the open sofa bed in order to reach his glasses, on the far pillow. It was like kneeling over metal pipes. Dear god, no wonder he couldn’t sleep here. When she got back to the room, he was sitting up in bed, scrubbing a hand over his face. His hair was sticking up in the back and he was bleary-eyed in a way that made him look like a little boy.

“You can shower first,” she offered as she handed over his frames, trying not to laugh. “You’ll be faster. Just let me wash my face.”

He didn’t actually get out of bed until she’d left the restroom, put on her robe, and declared she was going to make some tea. Joan didn’t have to ask him why. She saw the way the blankets had been draped across his hips—so what if she looked; she was curious—and smirked to herself until the teakettle almost boiled over and snapped her out of her daydream.

 

 

**

  

“Well. You guys certainly don’t do things by halves.”

After a productive lunch, the three Hawaiian Tropic executives had taken them back to headquarters, but they barely met for an hour, and the men had flipped through the portfolios Joan had provided with the attention spans of restless toddlers. 

She’d brought print proofs from creative, and media buy options, and market information, and last week, she’d read about the tourist industry until spots had danced in front of her eyes, but they clearly weren’t serious about leaving Grey. Joan could see it in their faces.

Her main contact, Michael, seemed more interested in the presentation than either of the ranking executives, and shook their hands with an apologetic expression before he walked them out to the elevator. But he was the junior man, just like her. He probably didn’t have any real power.

“Joan. Lane. We’ll give you a call, soon as you get back to New York.”

She forced a gracious smile to her lips. “Of course. Take care, Michael.”

“I hope,” Lane huffed, as soon as the two of them were alone in the taxi, “that man gets _very_ sunburnt on his next beach outing.”

Joan sighed out a long breath. It was supposed to be a laugh.

“Least we didn’t have to waste the whole day.”

“Thank heavens,” he replied dully.

They shared a rueful smile—she knew he was glad to be out of performance mode for the day—and so, on a whim, she reached out and patted his arm.

“We could check out the hotel bar, have a drink.”

His smile brightened. “That is an excellent idea.”

 

**

 

“Well,” Lane said again, as they turned down the blankets; there’d been no discussion on changing rooms, or making new arrangements, they’d just finished dinner, watched some TV, and started getting ready for bed as if it had never been an issue. “We’ve made a decent inroad with them, anyway. We can say that.”

It was funny how natural it felt to slip into these kinds of routines. It should have been awkward—ordering food together and changing into pajamas in turns and letting him see her without her face—but it wasn’t. It felt familiar, like a favorite movie. Joan tried not to dwell on this as she slipped under the covers.

“I left a message with his secretary about our breakfast plans, and told her Mr. Wellborn was welcome to join us,” she said, watching as Lane hung up his hotel bathrobe in the closet before crossing over to the bed, and getting in. She was sitting up slightly, with a pillow propped behind her back. “At this point, it may be days before we speak to him again.”

“Flight’s not till the afternoon,” he reminded her, glancing over a small notepad on which he’d written down their travel times. “Could even—see a bit more of the scenery, if there’s time.”

“Why? Do you want to go swimming?” Joan teased, knowing that was the last thing he wanted to do.

Lane huffed out a noise like a laugh, but didn’t quite meet her eyes as he put the notepad aside. She watched as he reached for the lamp, then paused mid-air, and turned back to her before he could get the light.

“Erm—sorry, are you ready?”

Joan nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Right,” he said gruffly. “Well—good night, then.” 

There was a beat of silence. Neither of them moved.

She should have said good night in return, but looking at him made her stomach drop in anticipation. He must have seen something shift in her expression, because his face changed, and his eyes flashed dark behind his glasses.

“Joan,” he said quietly, and it had been so long since she’d seen him look at her that way. The yearning in Lane’s expression made her ache, and so before she could think about it too much, she leaned forward and kissed him.

This time, it was much less awkward—he’d been surprised, yes, but had recovered quickly—and after a few moments, her hand was on the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, and one of his palms was pressed against her waist, the other touching her shoulder. He was breathing hard, like he’d just started sprinting down the street.

She moved forward, scooting closer until she had a knee on the sheets next to his hip. His hands were warm and steadying against her waist, and when she opened her mouth to deepen the kiss he made a noise in the back of his throat. Her hands were on his face and his thumbs grazed the underside of her breasts, and she felt like she hadn’t been this happy in a long time.

One of his hands moved to her back, sliding up under her plain pajama top, tracing the contours of her spine. She felt like she couldn’t stop smiling.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, pulling back. Joan shook her head.

“I wanted this. That’s all.”

Lane kissed her again, harder this time, and she moved to straddle him, to settle some of her weight onto his body—loving the way he sighed against her mouth when she did this, loving the way they were pressed together. He touched her hair, her face, her arms, and they kissed until both of them were breathless.

She pulled back and sat up to unbutton her pajama top, and heard his breath catch as he watched her. One of his hands stilled on the end table. He’d been in the process of removing his glasses.

“Joan—” His voice was so hoarse it made her shiver. “I—oh, my god—”

“You want to talk?” she asked, and rested a hand on his chest in reassurance, watching as his eyes fluttered closed at the contact.

“Just—” he managed to say. He licked his bottom lip in a nervous way, and opened his eyes. “This—it’s—important.”

After he said this, he glanced at her only for a second, like he was too embarrassed to keep eye contact. The look on his face was so vulnerable she couldn’t stand it. She knew exactly what he meant.

_This means something._

“For me, too,” she said finally, taking his face in her hands again so he could see her, and bending down to kiss him. His breath of relief was music to her ears.

When she sat back up, and finished unbuttoning her top, he traced a line down her sternum to her bellybutton with the fingertips of one hand, awe in his eyes, like the ugliest parts of her were overwhelming; it was too much, she had to close her eyes against the wave of emotion in her chest.

 

** 

 

Afterward, they were naked and tangled up together, with one of her legs slung over his thigh, and her head on his chest. He sighed out a contented breath, voice rich and low in her ear.

“Not cold, are you?”

She was half-asleep, and flapped a hand in the direction of his head to wave away the question, mumbling out an answer. “Don’t want to move.”

When he laughed, it sent a pleasant thrum through her body; his bare skin was warm against her cheek. He pulled the covers up over her shoulders, and pressed a kiss into the side of her head. Her palm settled against his chest, and she fell asleep thinking about his eager expression when he’d seen her fully naked, how he’d shuddered all over when she slid her hand into the front of his pants, and how when he’d been inside her, his pupils were dark and blown wide, how he’d just kept watching her face.

  

** 

 

Their wake-up call came earlier than expected—too early for Lane’s tastes. Lying facedown to his right when it rang, Joan stirred and went to sit up, but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder, and reached for the telephone.

When he hung up the receiver, he noticed she was watching him, eyes very intent.

“Hi,” she said, with a little mischievous smile. 

He blushed all over, still barely able to believe his good fortune. “Hello.”

She rolled onto her back and stretched her arms over her head with a happy noise, eyes widening as she did so. “Ooh. My shoulder popped.”

“Naughty,” he teased, and her delighted laugh sent a thrill through his body. He moved closer to her, and tilted his head down to kiss her, as his hands roamed under the blankets to find her bare hips. He still thought he might wake up at any moment.

She sighed happily, and ran her palms down the middle of his back; he settled his weight on top of her, and felt like he would never catch his breath.

They were very late to breakfast, in the end, but luckily, no one from Hawaiian Tropic was present to comment on such blatant rudeness.

 

**

 

Tuesday morning, the two of them were taking tea in Lane’s office when their conversation was interrupted by a brief knock on the door.

“Good morning, Mr. Pryce,” Dawn said as she entered, smiling at them both as if she were relieved to see them. “Joan. Welcome back.”

Lane was practically beaming. “Thank you.”

“Anything we missed while we were out?” Joan asked, noticing the secretary was carrying several message slips.

“Nothing crucial.” Dawn’s face turned thoughtful as she flipped through the papers in her hand. “Although, your hotel clerk left a message with the service this morning. He wanted to know what you thought of the suite, since you’d expressed some dissatisfaction, before.”

Joan had to fight to keep from meeting Lane's eyes. 

“I—” Lane was trying to sputter out an answer, and Joan knew he was very close to blushing. “Well, I suppose—it was—”

She decided to save him the expense of finishing that sentence. “I think we made the best of that situation. Everything turned out fine.”

“Yes.” After a pause, Lane cleared his throat. “Erm, precisely.” 

“Okay,” Dawn said, folding her hands in front of her. Joan noticed the younger woman was being careful to keep her expression neutral. “Well, good. Then I’ll pass that along.” 

“Thank you, Dawn,” she replied.

Joan felt Lane’s eyes on her again, and took a quick sip of her tea to hide the fact that she was smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the Rolling Stones "You Can't Always Get What You Want," because sometimes you end up sharing a bed on a business trip instead of getting your own private rooms, and that's just the way it goes. I've been trying to write this for a couple of weeks; so glad I finally broke through my writer's block. Great moments in fanfic tropes, etc. :)


End file.
